


Imperio

by Spatzi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, M/M, Tutor Tom Riddle, tomarry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 06:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3199484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spatzi/pseuds/Spatzi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In expressing himself through music, he loses his sanity to the madness of his genius; he is rendered weak and incapable of coherent thought and speech after the echo of his last note has dissipated. Tom is then overcome with the sense of pride that Harry Potter, beautiful, sublime, powerful Harry Potter, was his: his to cultivate and mould; his to posses and break.</p><p>(A companion piece to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/200873">The Classical Life</a> series.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imperio

**Author's Note:**

> This was written while listening to Madame Sylvia Čápová Vizváry's [recording](http://grooveshark.com/s/Piano+Sonata+No+23+In+F+Minor+Op+57+Appassionata+Allegro+Assai/51RiLl?src=5) of Beethoven's Piano Sonata #23 In F Minor, op. 57, with the image of Harry in white tie and tails, performing said sonata, while Tom is indistinctly perving from a distance.

 

 

Harry Potter was hard working, dedicated, and respectful of the gifts lavished on him. He was warm, charming, quick to laugh, with none of that archaic prima donna ritual of sweeping into the room like royalty.  
  
He had a deep understanding of music, particularly Beethoven's bipolar masterpieces, that was demonstrated each time he was in the perfect position to do so: in front of the piano. There, walled off from the rest of the world by his artistic prowess and precision and dexterity in delivery, he breathes new life to the classics with each shuddering breath he exhales as he further submerges into the depths of his knowledge and mastery of his art. During those moments it becomes clear that he, barely seventeen and young, was indeed a royal in that he was superior, able to command his audience to either freeze to immediate attention or sink into obsequious attitude with the beauty of his playing.  
  
It is when he emerges from the depths of his otherworldliness though, that Tom finds him the most beautiful. In expressing himself through music, he loses his sanity to the madness of his genius; he is rendered weak and incapable of coherent thought and speech after the echo of his last note has dissipated. He spends several moments sitting on his bench, body boneless and leaning forward, almost as if he was about to fall, knuckles white, fingers trembling and cold, clenching as if grasping at the last traces of fantasy, face flushed, nostrils flaring, lashes lowered over green, dilated green, lightning green, maddening green. Green, green, green.   
  
And then with one great exhale, he pushes himself away from his instrument. He stands, minutely swaying on the spot in a balancing act between two worlds, sightless eyes roaming, searching on their own accord, seeking his tutor, his mentor, his anchor. And always, without fail, he finds him, and waits for that small, imperceptible nod of approval. And then, when he has it, only then he reaches the dawn of awareness, fully returning to the present, to reality, to his audience, to Tom. He smiles, and Tom returns it, in praise of his _petit prince_ —a reward for a job well done—and also because Tom is then overcome with the sense of pride that Harry Potter, beautiful, sublime, powerful Harry Potter, was his: his to cultivate and mould; his to posses and break. And what made it all the more sweeter was that he knew that Harry Potter, without a doubt, would have it no other way.


End file.
